A Tale of a One eyed Hatter
by kim-onka
Summary: Break's "new beginning" at the Rainsworth's, his very own POV, distress and painful memories, highly Break-centered etc. Somewhat chaotic and entangled. And completed. Please Read, Enjoy & Review. Ha.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Pandora Hearts and all the characters belong to Jun Mochizuki.

Spoiler warning: As for now, up to chapter 32 (Break's past). If you're behind, please make yourself up-to-date and feel invited~

Summary: This aspires to become a collection of short stories/drabbles centered on Break, often featuring Sharon but not only (the results may vary, I'm not really sure yet). The first one (below) is about his coming out of the Abyss.

Enjoy~

* * *

_Trippin__g out  
Spinning around  
I'm underground  
I fell down  
Yeah I fell down  
I'm freaking out, where am I now?  
Upside down and I can't stop it now_

Avril Lavigne "Underground" (_Alice in Wonderland_ official soundtrack)

The snow white madness is piercing through his right eye as sharply as the relentless pain is stabbing the empty hole after his left orb, blurring the image of the girl before him into indistinguishable, messed miscellany of bright spots and lines until finally everything mingles beyond resolution and fades away into blindness. His vision turns black, then white and black again, there is some pulling and drawing and dragging from nowhere into nowhere, up and down and left and right and outwards and inwards, throbbing and stitching and burning and paralyzing, and _what_ is happening to him –

- then all of sudden everything is gone and he feels his numb figure collapse helplessly as his legs give out under him, his strained mind a total mess unable to undergo any action apart from passively recording sensations. Hard ground hits the back of his head, prompting it to bounce against it once and twice before lying still. Immense coldness seems to be devouring him, forcing him back into the deepness despite those several persistent sunrays which creep under his eyelids, welcoming him back on the surface of the world he was banned from.

This time the world looks blood red to his remaining pupil. The sound of his own ragged breathing fills his ears as he concentrates on struggling for another gasp of air that freezes his lungs and supports his already damned life for one short while longer.

Then he hears unclear, vague voices, muffled by the reverberations of his irregular breaths; the voices are coming as if from outside his world reduced to suffering, from another space, another time.

Yet these voices are apparently speaking of him.

"_Please hurry here!"_ a jingling however panic-stricken tone reaches his consciousness. _"Someone's collapsed here, covered in blood!!"_

"_It's dangerous! Wait--"_ a reply comes, completed by a name. _"Miss Sharon!!"_

The calls allow his withering attention to cling onto reality for a moment enough for him to fix his eyes – one red iris and one bloody open wound – on the two people bent over him, a little fair-haired girl with an expression of terrified shock on her features and an alarmed young man behind her. His confused mind lets out a feeling of surprise when his gaze meets the girl's rosy, tear-glistening one.

…_A kid..?_ A thought crosses his mind before the exhaustion surfaces and his eyelids surrender, immersing him into blackness once again.

* * *

Author's Note

Are Sharon's eyes really pink? Please correct me if I'm wrong. My way of finding out is browsing DA and that's what I inferred ^^'

Knowing myself, it was inevitable that an angsty story about Break would appear sooner or later, so why not now? Anyways, I'm new in this fandom, so let's see if I'm welcome~

Please review. Reviews make me happy and make me update, as I suppose, sooner than in the case of lack of reviews. Note that you don't have to be a logged member to review. Yes, that'd be it. Thank you.

(_Attention! On the 16__th__ of March (Tuesday), this girl here gives candy for birthday wishes. Signed, _X. Break)


	2. Chapter 2

Hey! A continuation!

* * *

_Once I was real  
Once I had something to lose  
Once I could peal  
Once I was harder to bruise  
Once I was here  
Once I was willing to bend  
Once I appear  
I will be real once again_  
Brad Caleb Kane "Once"

Waking up becomes something he wants to delay, postpone at any cost, pushing away the slightest touches of awareness tickling his mind; and once the fight for oblivion is inevitably lost, he refuses to admit any understanding of the circumstances he finds himself in. The dull ache in his hollow eye socket radiates inside his skull, permeating it to the very back, pulsating lazily over the passing hours and providing him with a shield of silent physical pain against the frantic cries in his memory. Besides, it grants him a handy excuse to lock himself away and helps deter those noisy, annoying people who keep demanding that he eat, drink, take medicines, allow the wound to be cleaned and bandaged.

He surrenders to their treatment with what appears to be abject indifference, but in truth there are deep layers of loathsome fear and nervous hypersensitivity responding with merciless acuteness to each and every glance cast in his direction. No matter if the looks are of empathetic interest, uncertain concern, superficial politeness or open suspicion, he, who for so long lived lurking in the shadows, cannot bear the exposition of his pitiful person to the world.

As he sits all alone in the room he woke up in, as he thinks and he remembers as the relentless throbbing has already ceased to be a sufficient protection from brain functions, he realizes that there isn't anything and that he doesn't know. He doesn't know where or when he is, he doesn't know what happened to his master, if the snow-white girl from the Abyss kept her promise; he doesn't know whether and how he is to do what she entrusted to him. He doesn't know if he can or should or wants to live on; he doesn't know what for.

He doesn't know who and why is keeping him in this place, and whether they are aware of just whom they are housing. The new, clean clothes he discovered on himself after regaining consciousness hint that someone must have seen the seal on his chest, yet none of the servants says a word about it. Is he being cured only to be sentenced to death soon later? Would he care if that was true?

He doesn't even know how long a time has passed in this new place of confused, hopeless refuge when he is confronted with an invitation.

"Upon hearing of your improved condition," recites a servant with eyes fixed on the wall above the patient's lowered head, "Mistress asks you to join her at tea."

Silence. The maid musters her courage to look into his face and smile reassuringly, but her efforts go in vain.

"Our good Mistress is who decided to keep you here, despite knowing nothing of who you are," she adds quietly. "So now she'd like to get to know you. Talk to you. Ask your name."

See him. Talk to him. Know him? Ask his name.

He can barely recall the last time he was treated this way, so kindly, so _naturally_ after everything twisted itself up and any normality apart from the desperately squeezed remnants of his withering sanity got diluted in painful dedication and rabid toil.

He is to be treated as a real, normal person.

The servant blinks in surprise when all of sudden he lifts his head in a rapid movement, in spite of himself revealing the stirred expression.

"I'll wait outside till you get ready, okay?" She utters and backs off swiftly.

He is supposed to give a name. But what name? Certainly he can't use the old one, the real one.

His name was Kevin Regnard, and that was once a real person.

But then, he became a nameless red-eyed ghost creeping beyond the edges of normality.

Can he be real ever again?

That's yet another thing he doesn't know.

* * *

FF won't allow a hyphen in the title! *foch*

Anyways, let us be happy, please review, have a nice day~


	3. Chapter 3

That's all so random so random that it's scary… When you find I'm repeating myself in a most annoying, unforgivable manner, please yell at me.

* * *

_You're falling.  
You're screaming.  
You're stuck in the old nightmare.  
He's lying.  
You're crying.  
There's nothing left to salvage.  
Kick the door cause this is over.  
Get me out of here._

Simple Plan, "No Love"

"Get ready" may have a variety of meanings.

Being supposed to "get ready", he finds the clothes he was given some time ago but refused to acknowledge the expectation clear behind this – that he would dress up, leave the room and move about. Cease clinging to his exile of recuperation, while he wanted to prolong it, stretch to the very limits, curl up inside his new role of a wounded stranger in this house and never let the past or the future approach him.

He would still want it, but now it's futile.

The hateful demon of consciousness has already reared its head, evoking noisy, tormenting dreams of bloody determination and merciless loyalty; the awakening he feared has become a faint relief, refuge into half-controllable awareness.

After some time of dimensionless, concentrated existence his mind has begun unrolling the ribbons of thoughts in two directions. Backwards, as memory; forwards, as expectations.

What is to be remembered? All that is pain and madness; he realises that much.

What is to be expected? Countless reflections of his own pain and madness; the comprehension of that is worming its way to his soul.

Yet the invitation to normality, which has shaken him so deeply, opens the door to numerous questions and doubts. Has the master survived, or has it all been in vain? How is the Sinclair family doing? How… how is his own family doing? How is he supposed to ask all this?

And how is he supposed to go and meet that person in the first place. He doesn't feel like he can really "get ready" for a conversation with anyone, let alone a lady who keeps him as a guest in her own house. Or even "get ready" for an encounter with someone who wants to look at him as a person, actually.

Look at him. He turns the idea back and forth in his mind, doing up the buttons of a shirt. No, no, no, he won't be able to stand the eyes of one _looking at him _and _seeing him_ really, him as himself, as he stands before that one; it'll be too horrible, awful, awful, awful!

…but is there any choice…?

Again, again, again everything he _doesn't know._

To know, he has to come out. To ask, to find out. Also about what exactly they're going to do with him. If he's going to live, and if yes, as whom.

It's not the death sentence that he fears, no, he ponders, which thought accompanies the discovery of how difficult fastening clothes can be if one con no longer see in three dimensions.

Which quite acutely renders his situation, after all.

What he fears… it dawns on him that what he in fact fears is being made become a ghost one again. A red-eyed, blood-hungry ghost in the eyes of others; a lone, lost ghost of Kevin Regnard in his own eye.

He prefers being no one to being a ghost.

If that lady looks at him, will it make him a ghost once more?

"Are you ready?" The maid who brought the invitation questions quietly, knocking at the door.

No, he isn't. He cannot be. But even so, he still does open the door and come out, because his awakened mind demands to _know_.

However little it does to heal his anxiety.

* * *

I was made a ghostwriter and so I was busy creeping in the shadows. (I added Break. Now I'm waiting for my friend's reaction ^^)

I must say I would appreciate some opinion on the pieces of songs I'm putting up there, not only particularly but as an idea for future reference _et caetera_, as keep doing that persistently after one person told me it was good! But sometimes it's pretty hard to pick one…

End of exposé, please review, see you later~


	4. Chapter 4

I let him out~! The deal's still open, if I'm dropping, feel free to yell.

* * *

_don't turn away  
don't give in to the pain  
don't try to hide  
though they're screaming your name  
don't close your eyes  
God knows what lies behind them  
don't turn out the light  
never sleep never die _  
Evanescence "Whisper"

It feels like the way is going forever as his feet tap the thick carpets covering the corridors, changing them into soft pathways of pastel-coloured, furry maze. Yet he senses all this more than he sees it, letting the maid lead him, with his eye half-closed in inward preparation as well as in the fear of memories lurking behind masterful tapestries and ancient armors.

_A__ knight who works in a huge mansion…But everyone was dead._

This _is_ a huge mansion, still it _is_ different, there's honestly no point in remembering _now_, even though this painting of a garden which flashes in his vision despite its restrictions _does_ appear similar – to what? – plus this chandelier – this cupboard – he hasn't seen such things for a very long time, the last was _there_ -

Such thoughts make the way feel even longer.

It really, really, really _is_ different, after all; it must be the malicious, wicked nostalgia that changes the surroundings into remembrances, objects into phantoms.

His legs recall the long-rejected manner of proceeding, of walking straight ahead, his spine struggles to retain the determined – if no longer proud - vertical it had used to take for granted but lost after long months of surreptitious stealing and hiding.

He's not sure why he'd even do that; maybe it's the place; _again_.

Or maybe it's simply an automatic, subconscious reaction to the anticipation he fights to get out of his mind – the anticipation of _finding out_, and of _dealing_ with what he finds out.

He'd so much prefer to believe he doesn't care anymore.

The door opens smoothly without as much as a creak, exposing a huge, elegantly decorated living room. The sunbeams flowing through stained-glass windows into the room fall on the floor in a puzzle of colourful spots. He halts in unison with the servant, an inch behind the threshold, but she nudges him to go forward, to enter, by himself.

"Go," she whispers. "Mistress expects you."

No.

Expects?

There is a rustle of fabrics; a sound of footsteps muffled by the sunny lawn of the carpet; a movement catches his sight and his eye widens eventually upon the picture of a woman approaching him.

The maid ceases to urge him and curtseys.

"Mistress." She stands straight again and puts her hands together. "I have brought you the guest whose company you have requested."

"Thank you," the lady says with a warm smile, a smile for the servant which yet transforms into a smile for him as soon as her gaze lands on his face; a smile of welcome and concern.

"I hope you are feeling better," she says politely.

He doesn't answer.

He's lost for words, all of sudden. Not to say panic-stricken. Or on the verge of running away.

The lady is looking him into the eye, and waiting; the smile never fades from her rosy irises likewise from her lips, and this sight locks his attention completely, leaving no place for questions which evaporate into the air between them.

Why is that woman smiling..?

It's not what he's used to. He's used to expressions of terror forming on human faces at the mere glance at his eyes, considered _in_human; though it wasn't always like that.

No, it wasn't. But it was exactly to restore those times his recklessness had ruined that became a ghost in the first place. A ghost for master, which helped mask part of the pain despite being condemned to hatred. Forever.

He is hated and was hated and will be hated and _should_ always be hated, for all he's done. Even if it _was_ for master. This is his sacrifice.

So why, why is she smiling..?!

"My name is Shelly Rainsworth," the lady says, reaching out to take his hand in her palms, unexpectedly swiftly catching it before he can retreat, "and it is the Rainsworth Household's mansion you are now in."

"You are welcome to stay as long as you wish, as our kind guest," she adds softly after a while of silence. "Shall we get seated, now?"

Somewhat stupefied, he follows his host in spite of his heart's weak protests. _You can't. You shouldn't be keeping me here. You don't know who I am. Mistress Rainsworth, you cannot. You will regret it._

_Not someone like me._

_Should I… should I tell you? Who I am?  
_

_

* * *

  
_

See, a rhetorical question.

Now, favs & alerts are to be thanked for, reviews even more so, thank you, thank you.

My ghostwriting which played a sweet Fool's Day joke was a success of sorts yet I'm no longer sure whose. But I smuggled Break and laughed a lot so I guess it was okay after all.

Happy Easter~! And let us all love StupidFox~!


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5! This scores a record ^^'

* * *

_My shadows are the only one that walks beside me  
My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating  
Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me  
Till then I'll walk alone_

Green Day "Boulevard of Broken Dreams"

Tell?

He doesn't. Of course he doesn't. With the taut knot that seems to be clenched around his neck he has difficulty _breathing_, let alone _speaking_ or actually _telling_ the lady of his cursed identity.

Accompanied by another wave of fright, a realisation strikes him just how long he hasn't spoken to another human being, or actually anyone save for that purely white girl – Alice, the Will of Abyss – in the place of madness and the phantoms of his memory in the period of his lone quest which led him there; a ghost among ghosts to insanity in the residence of insanity.

_You didn't lose your mind 'til the end_, those were the words of the Will of Abyss. Maybe.

Maybe, but now the end is over, and even if he _did_ retain his senses back there, with everything else lost, there's precious little use to them _now_.

Supposing they don't lie down in deepness, scattered among crippled caricatures of toys and resonating to the sound of Alice's deranged laughter, that is.

"Please sit down," says the woman who unreasonably demands his senses to be right here with him, with her, with the reality.

She is holding his hand, invariably and still, and she continues looking at him through the air of warm expectances, with a gentle smile meant to encourage him, express care.

Which she shouldn't feel. Which he doesn't want. Which he doesn't want to want.

Which he wants her as well as himself to understand he doesn't deserve, even if he in fact _wants_.

Shelly Rainsworth virtually pushes him into an armchair and gets seated herself on the opposite side of a tea table, over steaming cups with flowery fragrance caressing his nostrils, which he registers somewhat matter-of-factly despite, well, despite the entire situation.

"You _do_ look better" she comments after sweeping her eyes over him. "However tired you still must be, I am glad to see that you have regained some strength."

Strength..? It is surprise once again that flashes in his mind at her words. He doesn't feel any different than he's felt all along; then again perhaps not mentally, but maybe he's recuperated somewhat physically after all. Who knows if he'd been able to go anywhere right after his first involuntary, forcible awakening into the world of noises and stings.

Even if he has recuperated, seemingly not enough to utter a single sound.

Have the sounds ended, come to a bitter end shouted out, every single one left, at the white girl in attempts to persuade her to grant his wish? Have his voice, hardly recallable otherwise than in desperate, raucous yells, dropped down at the girl's feet never to serve him again?

Expectances – or perhaps hopes - of Mistress Rainsworth's flutter into his face and fall helplessly, weakened with rejection.

"Whatever has happened that put you in such a position," she adds quietly, "I am truly glad. It is not necessary," the woman continues with a soothing note in her voice, "for you to tell me this if you do not wish so. Just try to relax, will you?"

Silence. As she has leaned towards him over the table, he backs off, squeezing himself in the soft, spongy backrest.

He couldn't really be farther away from relaxing, at that moment which felt like eternity.

Lately, his life has appeared to be glued together from tiny, momentary eternities, each separate and each inevitably shattered to leave place for another.

This particular eternity of mute endurance of the Mistress' unbearably friendly look is broken by a new voice swishing through the room.

"Mum!!"

* * *

And so Sharon-chan arrives! Hey, I can't keep Kevin mute forever, but I wonder what he should say. Anyone..?

Bakłażan-chan said: "If I ever had the patience to finish reading Pandora, I'd read your story about Break! But I doubt it's gonna happen." I guess that was to comfort me? Long live the sincerity between sisters~! Yet she promised to make a new icon for me :)


	6. Chapter 6

CHMURKA! Lol. I have a feeling I make him sound utterly stupid. Ne?

* * *

_Tell me where will you hide?  
When it's over  
Everything you know is said and done.  
When it's over, where will you run?_

_Your memories haunt your dreams  
Until they simply seem to have a mind of your own.  
Tell me what the emptiness brings?  
Everything you kno__w is everything but gone.  
_3 Doors Down "When It's Over"

He's seen that child, he realises when both he and the lady turn their heads to track the voice, ascribe source to the calling, find the form matching the sound. The form comes as a little girl with strands of blond hair dancing around her face as she totters towards them, her face alight with excitement.

"Mum!!"

He recognises the girl's eyes and voice which bring back the sensation of cold, red mist squashing his body and mind, and the surprise of that foreign call for help – help for him – and the expression of terror on the kid's features at the sight of his bloody eye socket.

Yet now the girl is all beaming and also eager with interest, her rosy irises shining curiously as she casts quick, unsure glances in his direction through the air which is now warm and clear, and his wound is neatly hidden under layers of bandages.

Mistress Rainsworth rises from her armchair and reaches towards the girl; as he gets to his feet too, he notices the plentitude of discreet but distinct resemblances between his host and the child, telling him without doubt that they are mother and daughter.

"Hold on, hold on," Mistress Shelly laughs patronizingly, "introduce yourself first to our guest, where are your manners? He will get confused, and then what?"

He can swear she winks at him, though he doesn't exactly feel like joking. There's no real worry he will get confused, he _is_ confused already, half-comprehending while stepping slightly back.

The girl halts, puts her hands behind her back and curtseys somewhat clumsily.

"My name is Sharon Rainsworth," she announces earnestly.

_Miss Sharon_, he remembers another voice saying that name. Right.

The silence that falls after her statement enlightens him on the fact that she is waiting for him to introduce himself in return (where are _his_ manners?), but he says nothing and the moment passes unexploited, empty and missing.

Which doesn't discourage the girl the slightest bit.

"Are you okay?" she starts, jumping to him, which causes him to back off again without thinking, his subconsciousness automatically rebelling against staying too close to anyone. "Does your eye hurt? I wanted so much to visit you but they wouldn't let me, they said you were tired and I shouldn't disturb, so I kept asking how you were even though they couldn't really tell me, I don't know why, after all I found you, didn't I? So it naturally interests me how you are doing. Do you feel any better?"

Under the flood of words he blinks and remains mute; he has a strange hunch that even in a normal situation he wouldn't be able to say much to this. Then again what does he know.

"Of course our guest is feeling better," the Mistress assures her daughter soothingly. "Yet he is not perfectly well yet, so please try not to tire him, Sharon."

"Oh, I'm sorry!" The little Miss sounds genuinely ashamed of having bothered him. Then she becomes aware of the fact that the distance between them is constantly, steadily growing, widened by a tiny step at a time, which for him seems to happen almost by itself, but for her denotes her fault of having bothered him. "Are you going? Where are you going?"

Where is he going..? He has nowhere to go. No place to think of, no person to turn to. He retreats without thinking, until Sharon's next words halt him in place.

"Hey… don't go. I don't want... Please, don't leave!"

These words reverberate in his mind and memory, evoking a distant echo.

_Hey…Kevin, don't leave. I don't want… I am all alone…_

_Everyone… is dead._

_Don't leave._

He left.

He failed that girl, he knew it even back then; and now he has no idea what happened to her.

What… what now?

All of sudden he understands he will not be able to leave here. Not now. Not so easily.

However entangled and baffled everything remains, he cannot simply leave.

He feels words form in his throat, on his tongue, leave his mouth, he hears his own voice, hoarse and cracked and unfamiliar.

"I…" Two pairs of rosy eyes lock with his face. "I won't." A wave of tiredness sweeps over him at that declaration and he leans against a wall he finds next to his side.

"I won't leave."

* * *

Forgive me if that was lame… *sweatdrops*

Uhm, it seems this story drifted quite far from the original idea… I'm sorry if that caused confusion. Right now, if I wanted to write about Break and Sharon in the situations occurring during the main storyline, I should rather start a separate story, shouldn't I?

Please review~


	7. Chapter 7

_Vivat May, 3__rd__ of May..!_ Yes. You say, "keep writing" (in many ways has it been expressed but still), so me keeps writing :)

* * *

_Lost till you're found  
Swim till you drown  
Know that we all fall down  
Love till you hate  
Strong till you break  
Know that we all fall down_

One Republic "All Fall Down"

As he won't leave – as he can't leave, despite himself caught and bound by an inadvertent line, accidentally echoing a plea he once failed to answer – he stays.

It is not even a decision, it is a fact. And the consequences of this fact remain to be seen.

Or maybe it is a sentence, but he has hardly any idea who might have sentenced him to this.

Maybe something will clear itself once upon a time, yet the hope for that cannot be fainter.

For the time being, all he knows is that he stays here, accepting the new role, the subsequent incarnation of his exhausted spirit, this time chosen despite his much unclear intentions or highly disorientated will; chosen by other people or other forces, separate ideas, outside factors.

That he has been confronted with his future in the form of a decided fact carries a form of relief, a relative luxury of obedient resignation freeing him, for a little while, from the pressure of inventing decisions. After all, the path he took by himself wasn't particularly glorious. Can staying show him a better way?

"It is good to hear that. As I said, you are most welcome to stay with us," Shelly Rainsworth's voice reaches him through the newly awakened, persistent humming in his ears.

Is any other way still opened to him, even? Isn't it far too late to try and live once more?

"Yaaay! Yes, yes, you must stay, _definitely_!!" Miss Sharon grins at him enthusiastically from behind a swarm of colourful dots dancing in his vision. "I'm happy you won't leave, I couldn't stand it if you left because I bothered you, if I'm bothering you just please tell me and I'll immediately stop, I don't want you to leave because of me!"

The girl's voice slowly mingles with the low humming, losing the distinctiveness of understandable words.

He is tired. It may have been the weight of the sentence, or the wave of memory crushing upon him, or plain and simple weakness of the still wounded organism which has lost large amounts of blood and has not yet regained sufficient strength. Anyhow, he is very, very tired.

"It is all right, Sharon, calm down," the woman lectures her child before addressing him with a note of worry. "Are you feeling unwell? You are as pale as chalk. Perhaps you would like to rest now?"

His left eye socket sends out thin threads of stubborn ache, enveloping his consciousness in a sticky, burning net. He attempts to fight against the weariness, reluctant to risk passing out in front of the two ladies. In the centre of his withering, entangled senses the temporarily hushed loathsome fear of exposure wails again, urging him to resume his retreat; yet is already up against the wall.

Even if he stays, it does not mean he is ready to endure foreign _stares_ directed at his hurtful however well-deserved misery.

Even though he stays, he is nearly positive he would prefer them not to want him here.

He believes he is entirely positive. But apparently they _do_ want him here. Why, it remains a mystery to him; and when someone appears to lead him back to his room, he escapes that question, hiding behind another one which emerges from the images of the Mistress' and Miss' friendly yet all the same inconspicuously inquisitive faces.

If he stays, he will, eventually, need to call himself somewhat, substantiate the granted identity with a name.

What name can be given to someone who turned himself into a ghost and is to be made real again? What should be the name of someone whose original name is stained in blood in which his broken knees submerged him when he is required to stand up again? Whatever name can describe someone who was cast to darkest deepness if he is forcefully dragged onto the light?

Down there, in the Abyss… It was a place where…

…_everyone keeps breaking. Humans break, the world also breaks._

_That's right._

Given everything has been broken, what is there left to name? What stays?

* * *

My, my, rhetorical question again! Please pardon the delay. Thanks to those who stayed with me for having stayed with me and to those who came and surprised me for having come and surprised me.

As a thanks and an apology, I'll tell you a secret key to a really successful story. The key is _electrocution_. If you electrocute one of the main and most likeable characters, people will adore every word you write then. I have seen it happen ;)

Please review~!


	8. Chapter 8

Now, let's buy ourselves some time to think by sending someone a dream! What about it? I hope it makes sense...

* * *

_But it's too late to turn back now  
It's too loud to hear the sound  
I'm so lost, I can not be found  
It's too late to turn back now_

_It's hard to focus when your life is a blur  
It's hard to see the truth  
How can I move on when there's so much to learn_

Dead By Sunrise "Too Late"

Yet the questions of doubtful remnants and phantom names of reoffered chances must wait as well since in the end warm oblivion of dreams claims him.

After the suffocating burdens of upcoming decisions have been lifted for the time being, his lungs indulge in deep breaths which provide his body with an alleged sense of lightness; misty sensation of floating replaces the previous feeling of being drowned, sucked in a swamp.

Naturally, it isn't anything he would be aware of, more of a subconscious intuition and a shy incentive of some part of him that wishes for a chance to rest, let it even be a chance stolen under false pretenses of certainty. Just one more escape into one of his fleeting eternities.

However, it is slightly different from his forced refuges earlier, when he was deliberately winding threads of pain around himself to form a protection against sharp screams flashing in deep shades of blood or else not so secret glances burning his skin like acid. This time he slips smoothly into unexpectedly bright forgetfulness which carries him to the achingly missed _before_, pulling his hands with tiny fingers of his own little Miss into fancy attractions of a town he finds – even in a dream – pleasantly familiar.

The girl's voice is nice and happy and relaxed in the sunny afternoon and once again the long lost while closes around him, detaching the truth of what happened later. Or in the meantime too, for that matter.

That truth dawns on him a little moment after he opens his eye, an unhealed wound of the heart corresponding with the still-bleeding hollow eye socket; the two holes left after a violating wrench of something precious.

He covers the bandage-wrapped part of his face with a hand and stares into the ceiling.

Of course hiding any of his harms from himself is bound to failure.

If he is to live, he will have to learn how to live with these harms.

Or rather, if he is to live – somewhat – _really_ – and not sink into irreversible insanity - he will have to learn how to heal these harms, tie them into thin scars that would be possible to hide, conceal from the eyes of strangers so that at least in the eyes of other people he would be _normal_ and _real_ the way he had once been.

He doesn't know if this can ever happen, or if the steadily seeping blood doesn't drain him before he can accomplish that.

That is, if he is capable of making the effort in the first place. If he finds whatever reason not to dismiss these vague possibilities of healing as futile theory arisen from a deceptive play of memory, dragging out sensations he should have buried hopes for long ago.

If there is a source to feed him with strength to trudge through the mud of guilt and dejection if he even finds some reason.

So many ifs. Too many ifs, to the point where all of this becomes void of meaning; the only thing left to do is waiting.

Waiting is another form of passive relief. It may be that waiting will enable short spells of _rest_ again; maybe with other sunny recollections.

Supposing there is anything he might like, this is it.

And maybe, in an indefinite future, the waiting will bear a fruit of _knowing_.

* * *

Heyhey. This is "as soon as I can". Happy? ;) On the margin, I also put up a songfic about Kevin, to Simple Plan's _Untitled_. I thought I would mention this fact, now do as you please.

Could someone please help me with counting? Kevin says he lived "10 years after the tragedy of Sabrie", he's transported "30 years after his time", but when he is still in bandages, he meets Vincent who says he was born "100 years ago", while I can't see how it could be much more than 50 years at that moment. Help..?

Cheers~!


	9. Chapter 9

**Premise!**

Break: We're having a premise now..?

Me: We are. Premises are good.

Sharon: Make me appear more!

Break: I bet this premise is only an excuse for you excessive talkativeness, miss kim-onka.

Me: May as well be. But I wanted to say about the timings. In the manga it is stated by Duke Rufus Barma, and in the anime by the Duke and Break, that Break originally lived 50 years after Sabrie. I just checked wrong fragment initially, now everything fits.

Break: What a relief.

Sharon: I'd really like to appear more.

Me: I wonder if we're approaching the moment where this gets boring. And when we get there, if anyone will say so.

Sharon: Please?

Break: They'll most likely refrain from saying anything, I guess.

Sharon: I was supposed to be frequently featured here! _Please_ let me appear more often!

Me: *sighs* On with the story!

* * *

_I tried to kill the pain  
but only brought more  
so much more  
I lay dying  
and I'm pouring crimson regret and betrayal  
I'm dying, praying, bleeding and screaming  
am I too lost to be saved  
am I too lost?_

Evanescence, "Tourniquet"

And so the waiting fills his seconds, minutes, hours adding up to days, pointlessly flowing days with moments scattered around the large mansion in irregular patterns rewinding from time to time.

He has been advised – encouraged – _told_ not to stay in the room they gave him all the time, but he pays little attention to where his feet lead him, inside or out ("_You might like to go to the gardens, they are very pleasant at this time of the year_"); the only instinct guiding him is to – avoid – evade – anything but encounter – people whose doubtful glances trace each single one of his thoughtless steps.

Not that any of these conspicuously disapproving spectators ever goes as for as to approach him or speak to him, no. Only the spider's web of suspicions sticks to his clothes and shrouds his figure, never wanting to go off.

It doesn't matter to him; it doesn't matter at all.

What they think is of no concern to him as long as he can escape to the shadowy corridors in which he sometimes wishes he could dissolve; or else outside, into entangled alleys winding between walls of trees and fences of hedges in which he can imagine being lost beyond location...

…location isn't necessary, neither is it certainly stable as pictures of other times, places, even dimensions continue to distort his perception, making him feel suspended in unreality, or is it madness -

- a flowerbed of white roses occasionally painted deep crimson seems to chain him all of sudden with its heavy fragrance and draw downwards, wherever it may be; red tints seeping into fair purity are something he once saw – what is this redness – blood on crystal snow, his blood –

seconds pass and he is suffocating –

yet a blow of delicate wind is enough to cast the ephemeral bindings away and there he stands, his head spinning somewhat.

Is it just his shadow, or is he himself dissipating in the bright sunlight? There are moments when it's hard to say.

But even so, even with all that, even tough sensations are intertwining to weave secret paths among possible new thorns, as if there wasn't enough blood on white roses, even though perspectives of not finding a way back become increasingly real not to say attractive – it still means nothing at all, and everything remains a pointless chaos.

In the chaos he is usually by himself. After all, he entered it on his own, so it is only fair he would mark its ways with his footprints alone.

However, sometimes his lone, aimless wanders balancing on the edge of sanity are accompanied.

The company consists of calm, ladylike Mistress Shelly Rainsworth and lively, cheerful Miss Sharon. At times, the company also includes the young man whom he remembers calling the girl's name that day the Abyss threw him out onto the world; at others, a kind elderly lady whose eyes exhibit a shade of rose-pink mirroring that of the other two ladies and who is unmistakably the Duchess Rainsworth.

This is a company that assists him in the air of light warmness, taking him along with miscellaneous conversations he records automatically, but never demanding that he contribute.

He is unable to decide if he finds this company welcome.

Surely, the voices – _real_ voices – and smiles – _at him_, too – do capture his mind sufficiently on the contemporary and _now_ instead of labyrinths of times and spaces, but not the less do they wake painful echoes in his heart; and this kind of pain induced by friendly faces is in a way the worst of all.

And in the end even that company can hardly distract his locked solitude, the solitude in which he _waits_.

Still, it is in such an occasion that a string is pulled and the Mistress' voice reaches his consciousness with an unexpected fact stirring his indifference as if a drop rippling the surface of water.

"…Sharon, you know about the Tragedy of Sabrie, over eighty years ago, when the Abyss…"

…the Abyss… has swallowed him fifty years after that disaster, showed him the participants of the catastrophe and let him out eighty years after Sabrie… thirty years after the last time he'd seen the world before being dragged down by the chains.

Thirty years… what does it mean? Have his name and ghostly form been forgotten?

What… what about the family he used to serve? After thirty years…

The ladies look at him and cannot understand his reaction to well-known facts of history.

They have no chance to guess he might have seen that history... through crimson mists of determination.

* * *

Next time I'll let him know about the changed past… I promise…

Please review..?

PS Has anyone else noticed that the Rainsworth's Dukedom has only women in it..?


	10. Chapter 10

**Premise!**

Break: This really _is_ pointless…

Me: Do you imagine? Not only all the display functions and PMing got disabled all by themselves, even the alert function, so that I when I was given a review by my _most adored author_, I wasn't as much as _told_… Give me a tissue, will you?

Break: Maybe it'd be worth mentioning that it was not for this story.

Me: Well no, it wasn't. I doubt she even read Pandora. Ah, but the latest chapter killed me with its cuteness… and the costumes were so adorable… Will you give me that tissue or not?

Break: Here.

Me: Thans. Now, only to say about these songs once again… My dear P.T. Readers. If you might know any song that you think matches Break and could be used as the "intro" to this story, please share. You can tell me via reviews or just PM me any time.

Break: Interpret the above as a desperate plea for help.

Me: _Szalony Kapeluszniku…_

Break: Eh?

Me: Shut up. And off we go~!

* * *

_Hunted inside my days unfold  
Open up take my thought  
You just roll 'em around  
When you come down  
Tell me where, why, when, how_

Brad Caleb Kane "Go Mad"

Now the mists seem to shroud his vision once again and he excuses himself, not wanting to face the concerned expressions of rosy-eyed ladies, or maybe reluctant to perceive them too through these bloody clouds forming into images so deeply engraved in his mind.

The urge to hide is rapidly extended as far as to the unblinking iris of the sun which is scanning his figure with impartial yet non the less relentless gaze, so his all too frantic retreat to the only place when he can be alone – the room – must be completed with blinding the window with long, thickly red curtains.

The retreat is marked with startled looks following his movements, but the startling is mute.

Which is better, for he probably wouldn't hear anything either way; anything other than jingling – despite all cruelty - laughter of the girl in whiteness, steadily transforming into anguished laments which in turn accompany the ultimate crumbling of the momentary shelter he managed to withdraw into.

Darkness with a subtle tint of blood, as befits a mass murderer.

In a storm of flashes, in a flood of piercing sounds everything returns and he struggles for gulps of air, swallowing it like water, choking on it –

was it all really _thirty years ago?_ –

and for several infinite seconds it is exactly like on that first day, first day after thirty years that he was lying under the sun which denied him warmth and refused to chase away bloody afterimages.

The infinite seconds pass one after another and out of the prevailing chaos once again there emerge questions, this time stubbornly pricking him until he agrees to ask them, once and for all, agrees to expose himself to the awaited yet continuously fearful _knowing_.

This requires that he leave the hiding, which he indeed does, straightened with tension, in a somewhat panicky way fetching words and his ever-unwilling voice which still has no wish to be heard.

A passing maid is ready to ignore his presence entirely, as he would normally prefer her to; it comes with ill-concealed nerves threading them both to exchange these few phrases.

"Excuse me," so quietly that he has to ascribe it to her good will that she does turn to him at all.

"How can I help you?" In spite of the uneasiness she smiles encouragingly, as if aware of his inner turmoil.

"Could you ask Lady Cheryl Rainsworth if she would see me? …Please?"

"Naturally. Please wait here, I will be back in a moment."

Wait..? Perhaps in the end he needs to wait this moment, additional endless moment.

Lady Rainsworth should know of the past better than anyone; she might even remember it.

He remembers, too, but this is a completely different memory…

…and even not necessarily truthful anymore…

_Will of Abyss, Alice, Alice, please..!_

_Really? You really can fulfill my wish..?_

What has she done..?

…How could he maintain this feigned, exhausted indifference for so long?

"Lady Cheryl will gladly see you, please come with me."

His attempt to stutter words of gratitude, _Thank you_, is futile.

But his body does remember to bow before he stands in front of the noblewoman in what bears symptoms of desperation.

He doesn't want to sit down.

"Do you want to ask something of me?"

He doesn't want to look at her.

"Lady Rainsworth…" The utterance is cackled and hoarse, weak and shattered. "I should like to ask you… if you please… about the Sinclair family… How are they now..?"

A while passes in silence and she doesn't express interest as to why he would find this important. Tentatively, he raises his gaze to observe certain sadness on her features.

"The entire family was murdered."

…

"Perhaps it was the doings of the noble house that was against the Sinclair family."

…_What… That is…_

"The oldest daughter of the Sinclair family was assassinated, and the youngest daughter was so depressed that she became an illegal contractor."

…

…_No._

_That's not… true._

"She sacrificed the entire family to the chain, and was dragged into the Abyss."

_No._

His eye is wide open in unspeakable shock washing over him in waves of coldness in turns with dull disbelief even in the possibility of such occurrences; and once again, voices other than these of the present wake in his ears.

_Don't leave…__I am all alone… Everyone… is dead… Don't leave._

He left. He left only to drown in blood and find himself in a hell called Abyss.

He never imagined she would follow him.

Not she. Not his little Miss.

"All of this happened about quarter a century ago."

_About… four years… it all was worth… was it worthy… four years longer… Miss…_

_Why… did it turn out like this?_

_A chain…_

…_Humans break…_

_Will of Abyss…I hate you, Will of Abyss._

_I loathe you with whatever I have left… whatever that is you haven't taken away from me yet._

_I hate you, Will of Abyss._

_

* * *

_

Please review, reviews count as life support for this story ;)

_**25**__**th**__** of May is the Towel Day. Don't panic, and never forget that 42. Happy Towel Day to everyone.**_


	11. Chapter 11

**Premise~!**

Break: When will you stop this circus..?

Me: Whatever is the difference if no one pays attention either way?

Break: Or they just don't care to help you with finding these depressing songs.

Me: That's a pity, but we'll live, somehow. In the meantime, I wanna recommend a story~!

Break: This is a story she translates. It is called "Podwieczorek" and the Author is Miss EternalCry. But you most likely can't read it before she posts the translation.

Me: Hey, I've seen someone there… maybe one of them is not the Author wanting to confirm my claims about "being somewhat able to write in English". But, but, the story is _really great._

Break: The translation will most likely be entitled "Teatime".

Me: Thank you. Now enjoy~!

* * *

_This is the black abyss  
My life's apocalypse  
Eternal suffering  
No future for me to see_

_This is the black abyss  
Executor of my soul  
This darkness fills my eyes  
And I'm now left behind_

Black Tide "Black Abyss"

_Will of Abyss!_

Even though the '_everything_' he has left is more and more dangerously close to nothing at all, the meager bundle of _his_ – somewhat monotonously, but not to the point of indifference, no, far from it, painful and distressing – thoughts, emotions and even timid wishes absorbs the growing hatred, not to say welcomes it in the vain of a dead dry scrap of land would welcome poisonous water with honest joy of being able to taste moisture.

Of course it hurts, pierces, suffocates, as after the fleeting refuge of halted procrastination the reality – _his_ reality – and life and truth – _his_ life and truth – crumble on him all the more mercilessly, as on one who attempted escape from responsibility, immunity from razor-sharp realisations among roses and sunspots and carpets, words and dreams and sentences.

Of course he would prefer to maintain – or return to - the previous state, if that were possible.

It is not. The clock has chimed; wake up.

Yet a little part of him – perhaps the part that was being pushed into silence, oblivion, or maybe a masochistic part? a part which asked for justice from himself? – wanted to be submerged in life.

Which naturally has no effect at all on the state of his soul; in fact, at the moment this state preoccupies him entirely and he doesn't realise the existence of that part.

What he does vaguely sense is that the hatred flowing through his veins is of ambiguous nature; it not only boils against the little girl in white who derided him so cruelly.

It also burns his insides with self-turned detest, although he tries to ignore it as long as he can.

All of that happens – mingles, twists, condensates, spreads, sprouts – in several achingly stretched seconds during which his body is petrified and his eye is open to nothing but the scarlet mists; and then he remembers the surroundings and blinks.

Lady Rainsworth observes him in silence with her rosy irises, and when his gaze focuses on her face, he finds he can't decipher it.

However, the mere sight of her presence acts as a signal of interruption and trespassing into his world of misery, where he would rather stay alone.

The all too usual (already) impulse to run away – physically at the very least, since psychically he is rendered unable to do so – again, he is too confused to begin cursing that impulse – is confronted with paralysis and the standards of manners engraved in his body – despite everything.

Thus, he doesn't move.

The lady sighs.

"These were cruel times, and tragic fate befell many minor noble families, not without the guilt of the major ones."

He can see she recalls it. He recalls it, too.

- that's why they needed him, needed a knight to protect the household, to protect his master –

_- a knight who works in a huge mansion… -_

- but he failed, failed, failed, once and twice and again and again, couldn't protect the master, couldn't repair his mistake, couldn't protect the little miss, couldn't stay by her side and in the end, in the end he _killed_ her –

_- but everyone… was dead -_

- the very person he was assigned to protect –

- he simply added her to the list of people he failed…

…And she was dragged down to hell, the same hell he passed through…

…and apparently is pulled down there again, with the burden of all his actions lead to he is pulled to the bottom of Abyss of overwhelming hatred and crushing regret, the more painful as it is futile and too late, too late, too late, forever too late.

He is aware this is where he belongs.

* * *

I apologise for the mistakes in the previous chapter, they should be fixed by now. Sorry. (And, sorry that this one was so short :/)

Who noticed the allusion to _Alice in Wonderland_ in chapter 9, by the way? ;)

Life is tiring right now, so, if you could please wish me good luck or whatever. Not that I'm superstitious, but I think it might make me feel a bit better ^^' Please review~


	12. Chapter 12

Oh hai… I've been suffering psychophysical exhaustion and a writer's block… Nearest future can last up to a week… So, there won't be much talking this time, go ahead and _enjoy_.

* * *

_All around me are familiar faces  
Worn out places, worn out faces  
Bright and early for their daily races  
Going nowhere, going nowhere  
And their tears are filling up their glasses  
No expression, no expression  
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow  
No tomorrow, no tomorrow  
And I find it kind of funny  
I find it kind of sad  
The dreams in which I'm dying  
Are the best I've ever had_

Tears for fears, "Mad World"

Oh yes, he is all too aware, he feels the awareness with every nerve in his otherwise numb and exhausted body, pricking his senses, penetrating and engraving itself in the deepest consciousness of his mind.

A new sentence, a new condemnation, a new hell with no escape – would it be right to even try to escape? – befalling him eventually after days and days of inconspicuous lurking – he is used to lurking – on the edges of responsibility for his deeds. Eventually. It has begun, there is no further avoidance, no further dodging the accusing looks of pale phantoms standing before him with bloody rivulets streaming down their faces in mocking parody of tears.

He wishes he could shed tears, but there is only burning dryness in his right eye.

His left eye…

No. There is a grave infinity of shrieking remorse blurring beneath the horizon of his further existence, a road riddled with sharp, glassy pieces of guilt with no end in sight laid in font of him. There will be time to force crimson regret out of his blinded eye-socket, bitter regret owed to everyone he that died because of him; oh yes, there will.

But there is no need to engage anyone else in this personal inferno, let alone the kind old lady who mercifully cares for him and talks to him as if he was worthy being another human's interlocutor.

Thus he bows stiffly however deeply in an expression of gratitude he might even be feeling – somewhere beneath the thick layers of varying shades of hatred – but doesn't trust his voice enough to attempt putting it into words, and he retreats, retreats with a frantic manner detectible in his movements – just how evident is his state right now? – desperate to wrap the last would-be protection of loneliness before it becomes even more evident.

Although he cannot know what his face may be disclosing, what horrors of the inside find their reflection in his red iris or on his allegedly frozen features (frozen in which look?).

Lady Rainsworth's face, on the other hand, is calm and sad and sympathetic.

The more he doesn't want to see her now.

The carpeted floor whispers beneath his swift steps balancing on the verge of running. He can barely register the people he passes and the uncertain stares or words they greet him with – wouldn't it be better, wasn't it better after all not to exist, not to be seen, not to be real, for a person no one acknowledges hardly _is_ a person, more of a meek shadow incapable of carrying heavier emotions, stealing between more intense feelings and remaining basically unaffected, like a dragonfly in the air dancing between large raindrops.

Yet he has been called into life again, by eyes and words and actions of others redefined as a human and hence damned to suffering the acid rains of scorching consequences.

The walls shudder at the blow of the doors he slams after having flown into the room, and then shudder once more under the frenzied hits of his hands curled into fists so tight that his nails cut red marks on the insides of his palms.

Thump.

_How… how could it end up like this?_

Thump-thump.

The skull emits dull pain at the spot where it repeatedly bumps into the indifferent, white wall.

_This… isn't… fair… h-how…_

The violent sobs shaking his figure are achingly dry.

Thump.

…_n-not p-possible… h-how… h-how could you do this?_

The trembling legs faint finally and he slides down to his knees, raising a hand to grab the bandages protecting his unhealed injury, the hollow place for an eye taken away by the girl who betrayed him so cruelly.

_Y-you took my eye… and promised to grant my wish! What is that? What is THAT, Will of Abyss?_

In uncoordinated, vehement pulls the fingers jerk at the dressing, baring the symbol of loss.

_Give it back… everything… give it back, Will of Abyss!_

Hot trails of scarlet travel down his cheek, originating from the explosion of agony echoing the one he remembers from the deepness, and drip down his lips parted in rapid pants.

_Give it all… back…_

_I… hate you._

"Give it back!"

* * *

Sorry, Kevin, no chance.

Like it? ;) Reviews may help fighting the block~ Gotta move to the "comfort" part at last.

Thanks to Miss LaFTA for helping me with the songs, they're lovely. [Dziękuję Ci ja bardzo!] (Although I cannot find the lyrics to the other one ;_;).


	13. Chapter 13

Oh hai. I just want Yuu. Someone wanna give me Yuu?

* * *

_Crawling in my skin  
These wounds, they will not heal  
Fear is how I fall  
Confusing what is real_

_Discomfort, endlessly has pulled itself upon me  
Distracting/reacting  
Against my will I stand beside my own reflection  
It`s haunting how I can't seem..._

Linkin Part "Crawling"

He feels weaker than ever in the struggle against reality and fate, which resists he took up so fervidly and recklessly under grave burden of denial and guilt, and which brought him only further denial and heavier remorse.

He has had enough. He doesn't feel like accompanying the ladies in their walks and evades their companionship, hiding from their sight or uttering vague words of excuse; neither does he fancy lone wanders on and off beaten tracks in and around the mansion. Instead, he limits his activities to numb loitering about, just to occupy the legs, or blank gazing out of huge windows, to occupy the eye, or fingering his dressing, just to occupy the hands.

It appears important to have _something_ occupied, so that the mind can be a tiny little bit less occupied by its own darkly solemn occupations.

Naturally, they replaced the bandages; they were worried and concerned and Mistress Shelly was looking at him with mild, sympathetic reproach, but _why_ would she..?

_Why_ would that fair-haired noblewoman sympathise with a random vagabond whose clock seal marks the severity of his sins in most disgustingly conspicuous manner, a stranger with a detested sign of a murderer engraved on his chest and in his heart? For – although no one has ever mentioned it in his consciousness – he is positive they know. So, _why_?

Hasn't she thought it might be dangerous, or discrediting, or thoughtless, or detrimental? Irreversibly spoiling her own well-being, or calm, or respectability?

Does she truly believe her guest can be revived to the world..?

Because he hardly does, whenever the thought reminds him of itself from under depths of twisted thorns of sensations. It's true he remained here, due to an unexpected inability to leave – just caught by his gruesome remembrances, again and again, it is as if he won't ever be able to escape the sticky net of painful memories woven together into sorrow –

but if he doesn't, remaining in this place equal meaningless supported his broken, empty existence.

Wouldn't it be better to have drowned into that red, freezing puddle of his own bloody nothingness he woke up in? If it hadn't been for that little girl – Miss Sharon – he wouldn't be there… he wouldn't be enduring all this… he wouldn't be pondering the wicked perversity of destiny and the dim perspectives for future the existence of which is not even certain… Wouldn't it be easier…?

…not to be there…?

Wouldn't it be better for them all, the kind hosts and the guest meandering between shadows, if he weren't here at all – weren't _anywhere_ at all…?

This is one of the things he dwells on when sitting on a windowsill, one of the interludes inserted after the last accord of his inner symphony of deadly remembrances rings out and leaves a short break before starting again, on and on and on.

The people appearing in the hallway appear to be of similar opinion, judging from their disdainful looks cast openly in his direction and scraps of voices reaching his ears – not that he is listening to them – they can't understand why he would be taken in here, and neither does he, and they found him out of place, and he finds himself out of place in the world of the living –

- somehow –

- and the fingers find a loose thread in the bandages, and pull, and pierce, and search for something that cannot be found, he isn't sure why, but they dig deeper and blood oozes silently drop by drop –

- drop –

- drop –

- it hurts but whatever does that matter if it is only one simple drop in the ocean of pain -

- drop.

* * *

I'm sure everyone sees the situation and what is bound to happen, ne?

Uh, I promised someone some angst… about a character I don't really like, just for a change ;) Gotta get to work. And then… Yuu! (My next victim without a doubt) :3

Hey! Please review.


	14. Chapter 14

Hey. I wrote a request story for the first time in my life and it was liked. And I was told I did _that_ _loser_ justice!

(Break: What will Miss Bakłażan say when she comes back! Such disgrace!

Me: She won't find out, that for one. And she'd forgive me anyways… there's only one thing Bakłażan-chan wouldn't forgive, and that's _Yullen_.)

That's for the better, isn't it..? Anyhow, on my part I asked one person to write a poem about Kanda Yuu, and she wrote it beautifully. She also has a wonderful poem dedicated to everyone's beloved Elliot Nightray, which I honestly recommend to you all.

The Author calls herself PeanutAngel, everything is in my Favorites.

* * *

_Don't turn away_

_I pray you've heard the words I've spoken_

_Dare to believe_

_Over one last time and then I'll let the_

_Darkness cover me_

_Deny everything_

_Slowly walk away_

_To breathe again_

_On my own_

Disturbed "Darkness"

Drop, drop, scrap, scrap, twitch, twitch, rustle…

"…Is that him? The one who was carried into this mansion."

…rustle, step, step, twitch, twitch, drop, drop, voices…

"Yeah. Rumors had it that he was dying when Miss Sharon found him."

…voices, twitch, scrap, Miss Sharon found him, he's here, he shouldn't be, where should he ever be and why, nowhere most likely, scrap, it would be better, drop, it would be easier, twitch, the sounds are starting anew…

"He doesn't look like a nobleman. Why did they take in such suspicious guy and treat him as guest?"

…no, no, why, he doesn't know, the symphony plays again, scrap, the voices from the outside mingle with flashes and screams form the inside, drum, there's too much _noise_ all over, poke and drop, throb…

"What!"

…again the _noise_, more and more, can't he at least _suffer_ his inner exhibition of failures and concert of transgressions in peace; someone is nearing him, _go away_…

"Stop it!" Hands grab his arm and try to pull his fingers away from the pulsating source of scarlet beads rolling down his cheeks. "You can't do that…"

…too much, too much, the physical contact is too much to endure while sustaining any outside composure, the physical contact cannot be blocked, cut off and ignored like the stares from which he turns away or the rumors he stuffs among the ringing of memories resounding painfully in his mind; the physical contact triggers him to violent rejection in the same manner as any exposition triggers him to concealment, material or mental.

Thus, the person who touched him is vehemently pushed away, tossed aside as an enemy threatening the sole integrity of his tragedy, and his own voice, creakingly forced out of the lungs, can be heard in the hall.

"Noisy!" The complaint flies into the face of that young man he saw with Miss Sharon on the day he was found on the boundary between life and death, and later sometimes with the ladies on walks, and here and there, accidentally; and now he is thrown on the floor, and is glasses hit it with a jangle.

"Leave me alone…" Why the hell would this guy ever bother, isn't he supposed to disdain him like everyone does and everyone _should_? Why won't he just _leave_? "Don't come near me…" He wants no pity and deserves no sympathy… so why won't everyone just leave him _alone_…? "Don't…" Alone in this tormented chaos no one can share with him, alone in the heavy mud of regrets pulling him down, deeper than anyone can reach… even if anyone wanted to reach for him… But it's no business of _theirs_, damn it…

"DON'T LOOK AT ME-!" The broken shout falls on the floor, following the intruder and his jingling glasses; he can well detect his own hopeless desperation in that shout. Because he _is_ hopelessly desperate, and he doesn't know what to do with himself, but most certainly he doesn't want anyone to trouble him, or trouble themselves with him for that matter…

Drop, drop, blood drips on the floor, following the cry in steady, unhurried manner, drop by drop running down his fingers in the vain of crimson pearls, eventually breaking apart after colliding with the cold tiles.

He traces the repetitive movement for a little while before jumping to his feet in the intention of escaping, hiding from the inquisitive eyes of the world; _how_ effectively or _how_ permanently he would manage to do so remained unknown, though. Because his way out is suddenly blocked by the appearance of Mistress Shelly Rainsworth.

The lady faces him with a firm yet caring expression set on her features; he backs off instinctively, but she proceeds past him and approaches the brown-haired man, picks up his glasses…

Miss Sharon looks up at him, her eyes are once again wet with tears of fear and worry and her tiny lips are trembling.

He steps back, back and back while the blood is constantly dripping, quicker and quicker until he loses his balance and ends up sitting on the cold floor, his back pressed against the rigid wall, as if in an attempt to push himself into it and disappear, hide and escape further and further… yet of course he is stopped.

Mistress Shelly crouches down and embraces her daughter, who soon decides that she prefers to observe the course of events situated safely behind her mother.

"There, there, no need to be afraid, our guest is somewhat upset at the moment, and he shall be all right soon." Words of comfort are naturally directed at the child, who is sniffing quietly and rubbing her eyelids covering rosy irises. However, the warmth in the smile reaching him like a single sunbeam penetrating the shadows around him is evidently meant for him.

* * *

And with this happy accent…

You see where we are. You see 'comfort' must begin soon. You shall be told I am better at angst than comfort! You have been warned.

Oh crap… please review. Unless I'm boring you and you don't care if I update or not. Lalala.


	15. Chapter 15

…_and what would that be…?_

_

* * *

_

_Everything will slip away_

_Shattered pieces will remain_

_When memories fade into emptiness_

_Only time will tell its tale, if it all has been in vain_

_I can't feel my senses_

_I just feel the cold_

_Frozen_

_What can I do?_

Within Temptation "Frozen"_  
_

She is kind, too kind, inexplicably, strangely kind.

He closes his eyes, the one crying with blood and the one exhausted with looking and seeing, and obediently lets the warmth of her smile – the consciousness of her smile and her care and her kindness – slide over his face.

What follows is a handkerchief, smooth and soft, wiping the scarlet from his cheeks. In silence.

Then a hand grabs his wrist and pulls it up to expose the red taints, and to clean them.

He feels weak all of sudden, despite having just thrown a person at the floor he is now exhausted again and unable to protest or escape – there is nowhere to escape to anyways – so he stays, just the same way he stayed before, due to a rapid fault of the body or of the mind, an immobilization owed to another person's actions.

A small hand touches his elbow, causing him to shudder from the surprise of this – yet another – invasion of his integrity in the locked away state of denial and depression; he knows it's little Miss Sharon, and the hand doesn't withdraw, but clutches to his sleeve.

"Are you ill?" the girl asks worriedly, "Did you do it… yourself?" the fearful uncertainty in her voice reaches him and it is some sort of regret for this action that emerges from this perception, because she shouldn't have seen such a thing, not this kind child.

She is sad, and sad for him.

He remembers that it was she who made him stay, and yet he is disappointing her too, he was supposed to care for his little Miss, and now this child is sniffing quietly all too near his ear because he let her witness the bitter somberness occupying his soul.

He lifts an eyelid and casts a quick glimpse at her face.

No, there's no need, why, why, why would he add this girl to the list of the people he feels indebted to, another person he hurt, why does he worry about her, why does he feel responsible if really _nothing at all_ can matter after everything that's happened? Hasn't he had enough of that guilty dependence on another human? The symphony tormenting his soul should have overshadowed and silence all the rest.

Yet this child has tears welling up in her eyes because he made his own eye cry with blood, and this is the same child whose horrified face welcomed him in the cold and red world, and now he just can't tear his gaze away from her face.

It was supposed to be finished. Nothing was supposed to be left.

With those deaths – the responsibility for which falls on him alone, once and twice and too many shapes – everything has ended, he is no one and there's no one else important to him, no any more, it wouldn't be possible, so that he can't let anyone down anymore, hell he can't even let himself down more than he's already done, so there's really _nothing_ left –

so what is _that _again?

The girl stops sniffing and looks him into the eye, bravely and trustfully.

"Don't ever do that again, okay?" her tone is solemn He isn't sure what she sees in his face, let alone how she interprets it.

Who… who is she talking to? Him? But what does that mean? The 'he' from before is dead, the ghost is wandering among the living and screeching in endless agony, but Miss Sharon is talking to neither, but…

…they _do_ treat him like a guest, they _do_ treat him like a person, only he doesn't know that person.

He remembers pondering on how he, if he were to live anew – but hasn't this possibility been cut off with the revelation of the course of past events, rendering everything a meaningless bloodshed? – he would have to find a name to support this life, find a form to frame it, a form this life would fill… still that's not enough.

A life needs a reason, and all reasons are gone.

"Sharon, come here." It's Mistress Shelly's voice. "You," she addresses him with a _smile_, "ought to rest. I see you are very tired and still unwell."

Does she mean physically, or maybe psychically unwell? He's probably both.

He gets up clumsily, bows stiffly and leaves, covering the eye-wound with a hand.

In fact, a reason is what would define him, frame the life and name the person. But, all reasons are gone.

Maybe there can be a new one, if it wasn't so dangerously tying and painfully exposing.

A reason, a frame and a name for a broken life.

* * *

Really, a 'reason to live', 'protecting someone' and 'changing the past/resurrecting the dead' are about most common motifs in manga… or shounen manga probably… well I haven't really read that much but it keeps repeating ^^'

It's so nice someone's ready to help me after all x_x

Please review~?


	16. Chapter 16

Nice to see you again. Hope you're still there :) Can you remember what was the last time? I had to remind myself…

* * *

_See me here in the air  
Not holding on to anywhere  
But holding on so beware  
I have secrets I won't share_

_See me here pushing you  
If I then deny I do  
Contemplate or wish away  
If I ask you not to stay_

_Can you see me now?_

T.A.T.U. "Clowns (Can you see me now?)"

So he is left to contemplate the unexpected interruption to his seemingly secluded existence, once again left to ponder on how matters he has considered irrevocably sealed away can be brought back by an occurrence so simple, by a gesture so casual. And however much he would have preferred those matters to stay mutely locked away, now it is too late; once again he is given no say and merely faced with facts as they are, when it is too late.

At least in one matter he has learnt his lesson: he won't try to change what cannot be changed by human means, no longer. Thus he accepts the new unquestionable fact with resigned obedience, attempting to ignore the bitter consciousness of the fact that he should have done just that from the very beginning. At the very least.

Strangely enough, it dawns on him as he lies numbly, facing the pale ceiling and still covering the wound on his face with his fingers, the new turn of events, the so unusually normal scene, has indeed changed something quite significantly. Not only has it awakened the buried possibilities for a return to life in a place and under a name which don't bear deathly curses on them, it has, by a twist of soul-mind logic he dared not analyse, granted him a moment of peace in which the ever-humming remembrances stayed silenced by different thoughts, thoughts bearing uncertainty and fear, but thoughts related to the future, not the past.

_Staying_ proved insufficient; here that little girl, with bright eyes so painfully – _why again_ – pained over his hurt – or what she sees of it, which is superficial little bit – binds him to life out of which he was supposed to be cut off ages ago; not only demands he _stay_ as a guest, but that he _be_ that guest, _her_ guest, _their_ guest, actually fill the empty figure of a 'guest' with something more that an indifferent role of a person staring with unseeing eye – eye turned inside – and listening with unhearing ears – ears synched with the inner melodies of dolorous cries. No, she – they – appear to want something more real, and he wonders if there ever can be anything like that to offer them.

Then he wonders why, why on earth should he even wonder about it; there is absolutely no reason to create anything real from the shattered, broken remains thrown out of the Abyss; there really is _no reason_ to force himself to extract any allegedly existing pieces of sane humanity out of the pathetic, ghostly creature he has become, as they seemingly – partly obliviously, for sure, especially on the child's part, but still – expect him to, _no reason at all…_

…unless the very fact they wish for it could be become the reason.

His only eye opens widely when the idea strikes him, this idea on one hand absurdly out of the blue and unreasonable – but who is he to talk about reason, on the other also feeling so inevitably obvious that maybe, perhaps maybe it could be worth a try, if only the voices and the screeching don't attack him again, then _maybe_ he could think of something, come up with a makeshift person to live in this body, someone who wouldn't only go around making his little cute hostess cry all the time…

For such a provisional individuality, a reason that simple should be enough. Just not to let them worry, he could arrange something; just to silence the screams, he could conceal it all under a mask of a new name and take on a new role, even it if meant _interacting_.

…does he want it?

There is little choice.

Of course there _is _a choice.

Yet the deepness of temporarily lifted insanity is not tempting, and he has already done enough harm – as the songs of despair have been reminding him – by his selfish weakness.

Maybe, maybe there is chance that some sort of correction (he dares not think _atonement_) would be better than relapsing into the same all over again, even as a form of self-imposed punishment.

After all, the first alternative is truly not particularly appealing either, but it seems something needs to be done, so if there _can_ be a reason, why wouldn't that something be done for the better.

If it hurts either way.

The third choice, the one more choice, the ultimate choice of escape he dares not include. That won't happen. That would be too easy. Too once-and-for-all, too decisive. And in a way the most difficult too, but in a way he doesn't wish to explore.

So he will _live_.

And as _someone_, a _person_.

This time it feels a bit as if he sentenced himself instead of being sentenced by circumstances, and so a sigh escapes his lips.

Parts of the puzzle are already fitting together; they live numerous empty, cracked, tattered holes, but a sort of a picture seems to be emerging, it may be some bits have been ready only waiting to reveal themselves until he realises the facts, and he _knows_, but for a change it is not a knowledge stinging into his heart and wrenching his soul.

_He_ will live.

* * *

No, him too..? Honestly, I should begin ending this stuff, as long as it's even possible.

I really wonder if those who so kindly acquainted themselves with what I have been doing in the meantime (sorry, it couldn't be helped) are still reading _this_. And which you like better.

(Can you guess the reason why this story is narrated in present? There _is_ a reason behind it, and pretty simple a reason to that…)

Please review and I may try to update fast~ ;)


	17. Chapter 17

Do you know the feeling when you sit and tell yourself, now all I need is a clever plan? Then a plan appears, though I dare not say if it's clever. And then… then the internet breaks down on you and you are left to console those distressed about this fact.

(If you see any sense in this, shout.)

(Oh and thank you so much for the help with songs!)

* * *

_The world seems not the same,  
Though I know nothing has changed.  
It's all my state of mind,  
I can't leave it all behind.  
Have to stand up to be stronger._

_Have to try to break free  
From the thoughts in my mind._

Within Temptation, "Pale"

With that, all is set, all is irrevocable, all is unavoidable; he knows that, even though he still isn't sure how it will come into existence. The exact shape of forms, the details of decoration, the minute aspects of acts remain shrouded in uncertainty and mists of tentative, fearfully careful perception, yet there is a rough, drafty outline along which this decided life is bound to be going.

So it goes, at times strangely smoothly, almost sliding into contours outlined by inexplicable prediction, at others tripping dangerously and struggling to escape the plan wordlessly born somewhere between his aching heart and their caring faces. Even now, even – or especially – after he has reluctantly accepted the comfort being near them brings to his being longing for the human contact he has lacked for so long and rejected so strongly, a wide, hurting discrepancy remains open in his self-maltreated self; there are still voices raising tearing cries about the past and the fault and the guilt and the hell and the impossibility to _change_ and the futility of makeshift reasons and the threats of attachment and the unforgetfulness of loss and the whiteness of fury and the rightfulness of pain and–

- but he squeezes them to the tiniest possible fraction of consciousness and steals a look at Miss Sharon's kind little face, wanting to see her with the eye whose only redness lies in the ruby iris framing the pupil free of crimson mists isolating him together with all the bitter ponderings in the worst of all prisons, the prison of mind.

The girl's face, he feels, should never be tainted with such cloudily despicable spots.

The girl comes to him with a beam exposing her white teeth and pink gums in an unmistakable display of amicable joy a lady this young and sweet should not be able or consider advisable to fake. In extended hands she holds a small pile of colourful candy, offering it to him in a manner suggesting she won't take no for an answer.

"Nii-san." Miss Sharon persists. "Nii-san, have some candy."

Her mother watches with a smile that once again seems more knowing than it would appear reasonable, but he pays no mind and reaches for the treat; the little girl observes him closely to make sure he appreciates it and eats without delay, thus he has no choice and does just that.

There is a tiny, unsure pull at the corners of mouth; he can't really tell if they do rise a nanometre or not.

There is a part of him that enjoys all this, almost despite himself; there is the part that shouts in protest; and there is a part that studies the events flowing around it, nearly past it, and wonders how it has become a game, really, a game of what prevails, what proves stronger: the demons inside or charms outside, the cursing damnation or seemingly foolish hope for being actually able to grasp the new chance naively offered by those who fail to comprehend the real extend of the horrors waiting for him to let his guard down to ensue.

This is all a game, an act in which he must outwit the darkness lurking to pull him into madness of all that which is, after all, genuinely useless but even more viciously torturing this way; a game in which he is his own opponent and it is only self-inflicted mockery that can allow him to get a hold on reality, in such an ironical manner pushing him away from the pain that defines him into that new, played-out person who simply has to be little more than a deliberate clown to sustain the necessary minimum of sanity.

Then the name, the name given to that role – at the same time wickedly derisive and boastfully daring; a name for someone who attempted to influence the course of events and indeed succeeded, but not without his _everything_ getting shattered in the process; a name for a fool now trying to master his own entity and supposedly failing to put together the splintered pieces of existence; a name for a knight who crushed all that was ever important to him with his own hands and now is left to challenge the reality with a ridiculous mask of a joker –

- the madness which cannot be overpowered needs to be kept at a safe distance –

- the room full of grinning toys flashes somewhere in the background, and the little princess of the damned oh how he hates her but it is irrelevant now –

- so a failed conqueror, one who tried to rule and was derided and now derides himself by picking a name of a master –

- still not without smuggling the notion of how everything he wants to acquire breaks apart sparing not even his heart –

- so a master of shattering and wasting, and if everything is in pieces he needs to raise and try again because they are pulling him up and out of there –

- and try and get it all together even if some parts of him keep falling into splinters in the process –

- so, a name. A name is necessary, after all.

The candy is sweet on his tongue and brings an eagerly welcomed distraction into the reality.

Miss Sharon's smile is content and Mistress Shelly's smile is enigmatic.

"Miss Sharon," he says quietly, and catches himself being glad the voice escaping his throat is no longer hoarse, "Mistress Shelly. I am afraid I have forgotten my manners."

He lifts his figure to his feet and bends it in a bow.

"My name," words are picked with thoughtful care, "is Xerxes Break."

* * *

FINALLY~! *sighs with relief*

Now tell me how clever me and my plan are~

The name _Xerxes_ means "king, ruler, leader" – that's the concept. See? xD

Please review~ :)


	18. Chapter 18

Um…Hello? Remember me? I'm back~

* * *

_Do you ever feel like breaking down?  
Do you ever feel out of place?  
Like somehow you just don't belong  
And no one understands you  
Do you ever wanna run away?  
Do you lock yourself in your room?  
With the radio on turned up so loud  
That no one hears you screaming_

_No you don't know what it's like  
When nothing feels all right  
You don't know what it's like  
To be like me_

Simple Plan "Welcome to My Life"

He straightens up with sudden, both vaguely reassuring and curiously resigned impression that the important thing has been said, the decisive words have been spoken, and now it truly is too late – as if it hasn't been too late already, he knows, but in a different way – because the state of suspension has ended; no longer will it be allowable – possible – agreeable – achievable for him to float loosely between the shadows of lost identity, the cloak of impersonal indifference and the mask of adopted act.

He has named himself.

With that something is finished, something is set, and something he has to start.

The derisive play of inward-directed self-protection he plots whenever he discovers a blessed pause in shrieking hurts brought about by minor distractions, unexpectedly significant facets of what should be everyday life, is now given a title.

He said his name was Xerxes Break.

And this is not a lie, after all, as apparently he is and will be Xerxes Break, even if he wasn't before; he will be Xerxes Break in accordance with demands of his role in this play, the play he half-seriously half-believes in, but is now determined – obliged – to act.

This is what will be expected of him.

The candy wrapping rustles between his fingers pressed against his chest, remnants of the respectful bow he paid to the rosy-eyed ladies for whom the play will be acted, and who seem to be looking forward to it already – as indicate the merry twinkling in the little girl's irises and the relieved contentment on the noblewoman's features – which disconcerts him a bit, but only a bit since their inexplicable friendliness towards his person was what bore the new role to conceal the tired wretchedness of his spirit in the first place.

He lowers the hand and looks at the gaudy yellow wrapping, absent-mindedly fumbling with it before Miss Sharon's little hands grab a surprisingly firm hold of his own and shake it earnestly.

"Xerxes Nii-san," says the girl with loads of beaming satisfaction, as if trying it out, and stops to consider; and for him it suddenly seems like another decisive moment, and it is really strange how every alternate moment can dawn on him with the irreversibility of a judgment; but Miss Sharon's brows furrowed in thought smoothen and she glances up at him, bashfulness he would never suspect in her shining in her eyes.

"Xarx-nii?" she asks uncertainly, showing her milky teeth in a shy grin.

"If that is what Miss Sharon wishes," he concedes smoothly, the voice still obediently forming into even words despite the itching foreshadow of hoarseness he detects in his throat; a quick glance in the older lady's direction tells him of her amused approval, while the child squeezes his fingers in an outburst of sheer joy he doesn't even attempt to comprehend.

"We are glad to hear you have remembered your manners," Mistress Shelly nods, patting her daughter's head patronizingly. "And it is our pleasure to learn your name."

Once again there is something in her tones and subtle hues of her utterance that suggests she _knows_, understands, realises the vastness of the introduction which shapes his future days in this household, once and for all providing his position here with frames within which it is left for him to complete the finishing touches and slid into the act with all the confidence of a careless improviser. Yet for once it doesn't really bother him, no longer is he scared of the lady's sharp insight into the confused shades of his mind; indeed, he muses it is better if she knows the lengths he goes to grant his hosts' wish of having him here as a guest – real – actual – a _person_ – and so, he bows at her, slightly, in silent, helpless thankfulness he trusts she sees - it is high time he showed it - again.

Miss Sharon literally forces another sugary item of confection into his hand which still rests idly in her small palm, and is rewarded – likewise, as she is also his hostess, his saviour, his cheery reviver – with a nod of respectful gratitude, although, he thinks, maybe a glint of childish mischief wouldn't be out of place, supposing he can ever manage _that_.

At that moment he thinks he believes he can manage a lot, by way of gradually carving his actions and reactions with patient drops squeezed out of his baffled appreciation of their persistent kindness, falling with the kind of inertia characteristic of inevitably piercing interactions.

He thinks he believes he can even manage things he doesn't believe in; it doesn't seem to make a difference, in all the hazy honesty, what is real and what is unreal.

As if he could tell. But that he doesn't think, as that matters even less.

What actually _does_ matter will have to be found; just for this instant it could be the warm air of kindness and the spell of cherished of quietness, with the concerto of reproachful cries temporarily locked away; for later, it shall be seen.

Because despite everything, having something that matters matters very much.

* * *

Multiple apologies to those who told me in August/September to update soon; I won't bore you with my excuses.

I re-read the whole thing and I must say I'm pretty surprised at how it looks like… and also ashamed to have found so many typos… I'll fix it all… one day.

After this chapter the story will be concluded in 3 more chapters. Plus, possibly, an epilogue. You can pick the date of the next update, arbitrarily soon, on the 'first come, first served' basis :)


	19. Chapter 19

Here I gave you a chance… well, as soon as possible is today (but, this won't happen again). Time to turn to the canon!

* * *

_This is not really me  
You're an angel not asking who I am  
You understand  
That is not really you  
You look at me as if I'm something more  
Well dream on_

_Welcome to my life  
You see it is not easy  
But I'm doing all right  
Welcome to my dream  
It's the only one who needs me  
And stays right by my side  
_Sunrise Avenue "Welcome to My Life"

It is with the clumsy slowness of rehabilitation and impassive effort of healing that he lets the ladies drag him out of his blood-stained mists of depression on the slippery edges of which he constantly roams – shaking it all away in the vain of dry leaves is not something that _just could be done_ – and into the clear, bright air permeated by unsullied sunrays of a hopeful future.

Yet they drag him out none the less.

They drag him out quite literally, too, for now that he's officially _feeling better_ – there may be some truth to it – was he even _feeling _then, in the state of mutilated suspension – is he _feeling _now, when his strings have been cut and new are struggling to weave – he isn't sure, really – why ponder on this – now the hostesses simply don't take no for an answer and regularly demand he go for walks with them.

Fresh air is healthy, they say, it will make him stronger, they promise, eyes lingering meaningfully on the white wrappings covering what fresh air cannot fix; one pair of rosy irises smiles bravely and averts, while the other penetrates the uncovered redness of his orb as if attempting to decide whether beneath those thick layers of hurt defiance there are wounds which won't disappear regardless of the fog being blown away.

There are, he is perfectly aware, as is the lady; and as soon as it is acceptable without appearing rude he breaks the eye contact, escaping the scrutinizing gaze which resembles digging fingernails into his empty eye-socket all too much.

Mistress Shelly strolls elegantly by him, indicating with a wave of the hand that he is to follow, to which he complies, relieved and once again reassured she won't rake out the nature of his stabbing misdeeds despite having every right to suspect the worst – sometimes he wonders if the worst she suspects is half as terrifyingly _wrong_ as what truly lies hidden in the deepness of his soul, still open and oozing unending pain.

But Miss Sharon runs to him and clutches his hand and pulls him impatiently, eagerly, excitedly, and dry leaves in colours of a dead summer rustle under their feet; specks of gossamer floating on the wind catch onto their hair, reflecting sharp beams and gleaming evasively. So he follows her, trying to focus on the opposites of the place he refuses to name in his mind, afraid of haunting recollections; this is a complicated trick of attention and occupies it sufficiently to put the whispering cuts of the heart at a relatively safe distance – or anyhow as far away as possible.

And then the whispers are momentarily dispelled when the little girl laughs merrily, trotting busily next to him in her autumn cloak, ponytail swaying in the motion; momentarily, yet a scrap of sunshine – not that hostile, warmless rays harassing his over-sensitive sight on the first day the child found him, but a fraction of friendly light – shines upon his shadows, outlining a figure which can longer be a ghost.

He is still weak, however; Miss Sharon casts a guilty glance at his paled face and lips parted in – he would wish – inconspicuous pants and tugs his hand again, sideways, and leads him to a tall tree against which he can lean, which he does, and as the wind gives a sudden strong blow watches her raise her arms in a attempt to catch some of the maroon, golden, auburn leaves, excitement evident on her features, so purely open and sincere. Her mother catches up with them, now she is laughing too, and hugs the girl, sending a gentle smile with a note of amused understanding, expressing mutual delight at Sharon's actions, in his direction.

He watches still, invariably, inexplicably soothed by witnessing a scene of untroubled affection, something he used to see on everyday basis before he lost it among the shades of steel-sharp determination and grave dejection. A long-forgotten sensation he dares not analyse but quietly gives in to forces its way up his soul and onto his meticulously indifferent face and he looks down, not certainly ready to let them see how his mouth bends in an unsure crescent ever so slightly.

Autumn leaves continue falling in a dry shower, in a strange manner seeming symbolic of something, something which should strike him mercilessly, taking his breath away, yet doesn't, because he finds himself clutching to that one emotion and the laughter – so _unlike_ the laughter of _hers_ – forget, forget – and the chilly wind that blows into his face only deepens his smile, even if a fraction, even if turning it a fraction ironic.

Another temporary, non-lasting refuge, he thinks somewhere in the ever-awake, murmuring remnant of harsh clarity in his mind; it doesn't matter, not now.

As far as he can choose, he wants Miss Sharon's hands pulling his own to be what matters.

* * *

A bit of a positive accent, but a bit of depression still awaits us, I'm sure you realise.

Oh, and may I warn you, after the story reaches where it is headed, quite a lot will end up stuffed in the epilogue.


	20. Chapter 20

There is a little skip in time, and now we have winter!

* * *

_In the end  
You kept everything inside and even though I tried, it all fell apart  
What it meant to me will eventually be a memory of a time when I tried so hard  
And got so far  
But in the end  
It doesn't even matter  
I had to fall  
To lose it all  
But in the end  
It doesn't even matter  
I've put my trust in you  
Pushed as far as I can go  
For all this_

Linkin Park "In The End"

Yet, of course, the dark, corrosive, burning mass of hatred won't let go so easily, flooding his self with hoarse shouts declaring revulsion and promising revenge to oh so many; and nothing pains as much as the recollection of cruel, deranged, jingling laughter of the girl in whiteness who stole his eye and mocked him into false hopes of revived past.

He waits with the red eye which saw too much shut close while fresh bandages are wrapped over his wound, and only when he is alone again does he reach up and finger the dressing with resigned delicacy; no more extracting bloody denial out of the robbed flesh, outwards pretences shall be kept –

- but the hand which lowers from the face curls into a fist, and white and scarlet flash in his vision.

_The Will of Abyss, who took away this eye, I will never forgive her!_

_Never forgive._

Never forgive… because it was due to the alternation of the past that everyone, and this time really _everyone_ was dead, leaving him all alone with his memory and consciousness not only denied cleansing, but indeed stained in much deeper crimson of wasted lives… the alteration of the past _she_ conducted, after having gauged out his left eye with her fine fingers and casting him into the middle of ensuing insanity scattering blood droplets…

…because he had _asked_ her to…

…he _had_ asked her to revive his master, not to let the whole family – the young Miss – everyone – be wiped out, driven to madness – his madness should have been enough – and eventually equally dead – and they _might _have lived – and he had asked that of her because –

- he had let his master down, and he was…

…feeling guilty, so incredibly, unbearably guilty, crushed down with the heavy solidity of the man's cold marble tombstone and _he should have been there to protect his master_; so an opportunity of an only necessary alteration, if demanding a – sacrifice – of his – of _other people_ – but it just _couldn't_ be left as it was, the reality was _wrong_, he knew, so he wanted to –

as it felt so overwhelmingly _wrong_-

fix what he destroyed –

he just _couldn't_ stand it –

because the remorse was devouring his soul and he just wanted to –

erase his guilt.

That was it. Simple selfishness whispered in his ears, wounding acts of lawless bloodshed – _doing anything just to have any hope any aim any pretence_ – in layers of loyalty-coloured illusions and words about help and service and saving – _I will become anything just to undo that_ – and deceived his naïve, foolish heart.

_Foolish, so foolish!_

His fists clutch convulsively, marking red lines on his palms, and so do his eyelids, evoking an outburst of pain in his newly treated sore.

The footsteps have long died away in the corridor, and through the empty aisles something drives him outside, into the cold, into the snow, faster and faster, the steadily falling snowflakes once again bringing the picture of the white girl who granted him the wish which destroyed everything even more entirely – despite all new lives and masks and roles it's not easy to _forget_ what is _true_ – before his eye, but did she know –

does it change anything if she did?

She did what he asked her to do, merely, only, and all to much, without pondering on consequences – _that was for him to do_ – and perhaps without much thought – _what are human affairs, let alone lives, to the queen of purely white insanity in the deepness of despair –_ using her strange powers in return for another wish, one she cannot grant for herself, one _he_ promised to grant for her.

It was all simply, clearly, mercilessly his fault, and his alone. He couldn't blame _her_ for his own foolishness.

The realisation strikes him and stuns him and makes him slide onto his knees into the crispy cold cover, hands burying into the snow despite freezing, wet numbness, and for the first time it is the intact eye that lets out watery regret, moistening his cheek and dripping slowly onto the white fluff, blotting it with minute points of unevenness.

There is the exhaustion of long-nursed inward tension being released with the act of wordless resignation to the painful truth, and his head hangs helplessly, weak, immense sadness taking over him in shades of bottomless shame.

He ruined everything with his own hands, words and choices, and ended up _indebted_ to the Will of Abyss who took his eye and gave it to the chain with cat ears and tail whose own orbs had been put out by another mad child in another world, another time, to the white girl who licked his blood from her fingers and then cried for him to help her, and threw him out of the hell of insanity, leaving him alone, purposeless, in the insane hell of his own mind.

The name of choice proves appropriate once again as he feels something falter, wither, break, collapse within him, and the temporary, borrowed reasons of the ladies' contentment melt under his still flowing tears.

"Hey…" a vaguely interested, a note bored voice reaches his ear. "Why are you crying…?"

* * *

Here, enter that little brat.

Sorry to everyone who openly or secretly hoped for that, but there won't be an elaborate description of how Break became friends with Reim; I'd have no idea how to do such a thing. As for Emily, she'll appear, but without any heartbreaking significance.


	21. Chapter 21

Hey-hey, we're closing up on that stuff~ Remember that snowy conversation of theirs?

* * *

_For those days we felt like a mistake,  
Those times when love's what you hate,  
Somehow,  
We keep marching on._

_For those nights when I couldn't be there,  
I've made it harder to know that you know,  
That somehow,  
We'll keep moving on._

_There's so many wars we fought,  
There's so many things we're not,  
But with what we have,  
I promise you that,  
We're marching on_

One Republic "Marching On"

He looks up to see a kid standing a few steps away, smiling a weird smile reflected also in his unmatched eyes under expectantly raised eyebrows; this kid, a recognition clicks, _this… kid is…_

The boy eyes his face and sees something in it, something which turns his expression into one of – not recognition of him – but some sort of recognition or understanding – and the boy speaks.

"…You are also," he says evenly, "'the cause of misfortune'…"

He doesn't know what the strange child wants or means or implies or refers to, and it shows on his face.

"Huh… You didn't know?" the boy mocks nonchalantly, and tells the story of a "misfortune child" from one hundred years ago, one with red irises said to attract worst of luck, one who didn't even do anything, but was chased away and bullied and insulted, in an impersonal voice, and stops, voice trailing off, and grins with apparent friendliness at his alert features.

"That's great. You're living in the present era."

But before any questions can be asked, another voice calls out, calling the child the name he remembers hearing from _her_ mouth, with such pure, uncontrollable detestation, so it was this kid, does he recognise him too –

"My name is Vincent Nightray. I'm searching for my brother, whose whereabouts are unknown. Black hair and golden eyes. A year older than me…" and there was, there was another child back then, swung over the blonde's shoulder, with messy dark hair the only detail visible of numbly hanging head, "his name's Gilbert. If you meet such a person, can you please contact the Nightray Household..?"

Without waiting for an answer the boy waves casually and smirks, "Bye bye, big brother, who is the cause of misfortune," and walks away with the woman, followed by a puzzled gaze of one unlucky scarlet eye.

_That kid is also… the four duke's houses'…_

"Is there any," he whispers hoarsely into the still, cool, air, "meaning behind this..?"

That kid, who strolled into the very heart of the Abyss and laughed in the face of the princess of destruction during the great Tragedy – _everyone was dead_ – a kid born a hundred years ago, dragging his older brother out of the mayhem which had ensued thirty years before _he_ was cast into the deepness – _everyone keeps breaking_ – several dozen years which had no effect on either of them later grins, not without a note of insanity still lingering there, and announces himself a child of a noble family –

and _he_ stays with one too –

what kind of a pattern could that be..?

Will of Abyss… Sabrie… her wish…

…he _had_ decided to live, with a mixture of recklessly wound commitments and passive resignation to unspoken propositions agreeing to act the play of his concept, and there has to be a reason…

…white snowflakes sit quietly on the white glove…

…the white girl's… Alice's… hopeful, pleading tone of unfounded trust in a pathetically determined stranger she herself mutilated minutes earlier…

_I… still have what she entrusted me to do._

…will it even make a difference? A reason way better than many others…

_So… I still-!_

His fingers curl into a fist once again as an expression of pained decisiveness creeps onto his face, carving it into shapes which it hasn't taken in a long time, and his head lifts somewhat.

Unexpectedly, like from a completely different dream, Miss Sharon's surprised but happy voice calls him from a distance –

_Hey, really..? Can you fulfill my wish..?_

their faces are so unlike each other, but each radiating unsubstantiated faith in _him_ –

the rosy-eyed girl runs towards him, his red orb under a suddenly heavy eyelid and fringes swirling in a turn takes in her little figure and that young man behind her –

Alice's lips, slightly parted in a soft request, appear for a split second, letting out the now indispensable wish –

_Then… I want-_

There is a shade of a smile just for the little girl despite the wordless resolution in favour of that other little girl, so now the links have multiplied, the past and the present – the madness and the relative sanity – new, true, honest, but never again mindless loyalties – and Miss Sharon's small hand pats his head, to which he complies with hidden delight spreading shy warmth around his constantly pained heart.

He lets her take him _home_.

And there, there he kneels again, on the vast carpet before the Mistress's armchair, and asks her forgiveness for the rediscovered pledge he will strive to fulfill while – naturally – invariably serving his saviors with all due gratitude, but it is not enough, can she understand –

"To me… I need a reason."

The lady nods, her rosy eyes scrutinizing.

"The reason for me to continue living."

Silence of anticipation.

"Therefore, I need to confirm the truth of 100 years ago."

His head rises slowly to meet her stare.

"Can you forgive me…Mistress Shelly?"

Mistress Shelly smiles graciously and he sees she can, and will, and indeed she is glad to; since she sees her guest is eventually healed, or as close as he'll ever get to being healed, and she gives him a hand to lay a respectful kiss on.

It is with a smirk of his own, mockingly ironic, uncertainly hopeful and delicately thankful, that he accepts the future rolling out for him to step into.

* * *

Sooooo, the missing piece is finally there and this could be the end actually, but title obliges, so there'll be an epilogue also. Lalala~


	22. epilogue

I'd hoped for more feedback last time… if you don't like it, just tell me! But now, on with the epilogue~

* * *

_The thoughts from yesterday forgotten  
I like the way this new skin feels  
Bring me splinters of tomorrow  
Collect the parts where I win_

_Against the grain  
Against the odds  
I'll rise and I won't trip again  
The dawn of a new day never looked  
As good as this_

In Flames "Dawn of a New Day"

So finally, finally there is a goal, not to say a mission, a reason, not to say a base, for this life hauled out of living hell and stuffed into appearances of consecutively varying nature, some of his choice, most of listless conformism with outside circumstances and demands. With that reason the life can be lead, substantiated, excused, directed, persistently navigating towards that goal among the mildly distracting everyday.

The everyday he had already tamed with the tiny efforts of constant adjusting to the prepared role which seems to stick onto him so naturally that the stiff artificiality evaporates, leaving him nonchalantly improvising the remaining details of his present figure. And it is indeed all details, only mere secondary details, now that he knows how to deal with both the days meticulously ticking away second by second and the wider glance over his sustained existence, that which seeks defences and pretexts for that sustaining. Neither of those would be enough, that much is apparent, but once both are granted, it should all work out one way or another.

So he drifts through the vital however malleable everyday, somewhere at the back of his head aware of its importance and of the accepted goal, but consciously focusing on the superficial delights of picking and sorting the layers of his costume, to the hostesses' open enjoyment.

There are the exact, nearly cheerful clanks and clinks of steely sharp scissors cutting away the lengths of his hair he thinks redundant, shaping the rest into fancy tresses cloaking his head and, specifically, carefully obscuring his empty eye-socket with a curtain of thick fringe; only sometimes does he lift the locks and stare into the mirror with the permanent hollowness no longer masked by white bandages.

There are smooth materials in the vivid colours of violet, cream, blue, further rendered into lavishly constructed pieces of clothing hiding in the nooks and crannies of cuffs, seams, linings and trimmings a vast reserve of tongue-twisting confections he produces magically to Miss Sharon's sweet amusement; and the combined sweetness slowly outlives the resident bitterness.

There are endlessly new clown antics played with half-hearted seriousness and full-hearted mockery on himself and, gradually, on other people as well; there are sparkling rosy eyes appearing adorably huge in a child's face, quietly content smile in other rosy eyes, and hostile suspicion dying away in little by little less doubtful eyes of everyone else.

There are the girl's small hands presenting him with a proud gift of perfect finishing point to his composition of apparel – a long-haired creepy doll with empty-looking white eyes and a wild smile which enthusiastically matches his own idiotic grin, in a pink dress over disproportionate legs.

"This is Emily," says Miss Sharon as he crouches to let her situate the toy on his shoulder, and he decides not to ask where the young lady took something like that from. An easily recalled trick of ventriloquism completes the picture.

There are rumours, words, which transform into a possibility and into a decision; and with the skin on his chest pricking only slightly under the irremovable testimony of a full seal he volunteers to form another contract – a new contract to fulfil the obligation resulting from the first contract – and investigate the pit of damnation he probably knows more about than all those people put together, but cannot, of course, let on.

There is a spark of the power of the Abyss burning in his hollow eye instead of the scarlet which the Abyss took away, burning under a wastefully decorated top hat, ready to burn away other offspring of the Abyss if unleashed, weighing upon his body.

There are relations and relationships, and companions, and that guy hanging about in the Rainsworth mansion that he can load with writing his reports and who talks to him friendlily despite those shouts and that hit back then.

There is elegant, sincere although exaggeration-flavoured, gallantry towards Miss Sharon, of whom he takes close care as her personal servant and who hurries after him with sings of true fondness, craving to help in what she senses is important to him.

And there is a wide grin which covers all that and more, a touch to the brim of the hat and a lick to the lollipop, and it is rather all right, after all, isn't it, Mr. Mad Hatter?

* * *

My, my, it's over~

Thanks to everyone who read, commented on, faved and/or otherwise supported the story and my work on it, either from the start or from any other point in time! It is very kind of you ^-^

Now I should really write a love story… or some meerkats :P


End file.
